The Face In The Mirror
by The Magic Of Words
Summary: See the mirror on the wall; The face within is not your own; It smiles, malice in its eyes; Sixteen years and it has its prize; Beware the soul, the haunted home. Harry's not the Horcrux. His house is. TR/HP


**Tom Riddle didn't make Harry a Horcrux. He accidentally poured his soul into the baby's home**.

_See the mirror on the wall_

_The face within is not your own_

_It smiles, malice in its eyes_

_Sixteen years and it has its prize_

_Beware the soul, the haunted home._

"The Will clearly reads 'To our family goes our house'. Missus, you 'n your 'usband are the only ones who haven't croaked," Ms Vance told the family impatiently. "_Yet_," she muttered.

Mr Dursley stroked his moustache pensively. "And it isn't a, a," he spat the word out, "_magic_ house, is it?"

"No such thing, Messr. I believe there's a flying carpet in the basement, though."

"There's a basement? I don't recall…" Mrs Dursley trailed off uncertainly.

Ms Vance stared at her. "What basement?" She sighed, superciliously, "Please don't make up stories, Missus. You's know that this is a serious meeting, don't cha?"

"W-w-why I-" Mr Dursley spluttered indignantly.

"Yes, very nice, Messr Potter."

His left eye twitched.

Mrs Dursley looked up, "not Potter-"

"Shush, Missus Potter. I'm a thinkin'."

The Dursley's seemed to give up.

"Once young Harry reaches a respectable age, he can choose whether or whether not to move here. How's about it?"

Mr Dursley speedily argued, "now, let's not be hasty, Ms Vance-"

"Then it's settled! When he's of the age a' 17, he can come 'ere. I mean, would do him well not to live in a Magic House all 'is life!"

"Pardon? Magic House? _Hogwarts_?"

"Now, now, good day, Messr, Missus! I gots me a more important meetin' to attend! Au revoir!" She scolded them, and vanished.

Sixteen years later, on the 31st of July, Harry Potter found himself with a third home. The Weasleys gave him salvage during the summer months, or he stayed with his liberated godfather, but this year he was faced with a new option; Godric's Hallow.

Sirius had been wary of going to the old place again; where he knew memories would plague him and bring out his… instability. Harry knew the man was sensitive, after all he'd been through (Azkaban, torture… the usual) he was prone to breaking down. The Ministry had been unsure about leaving the 'Saviour of the Wizarding World' with a 'maniac', but they had complied when the esteemed Emmeline Vance had spoken up against the Dursleys- "I've a never seen such muggles in my life, sir. They're even more so mundane than old Fudge!" And then some.

Of course, neither of them were OK. Their problems complimented each-others'. Harry's parents had been killed by some maniac when he was a baby, who in turn had somehow been vanquished himself. Harry had been given the label 'The Boy-Who-Lived'. But with little encouragement from the hero Harry Potter's name faded into the equivalent of some dead guy in your history book. He was easily forgotten; quiet and awkward. He tended to ignore most people, and them him, in return. Of course, he wasn't quite sure how he and Ron Weasley had bonded. Perhaps it was their immense difference; Ron being chatty, insensitive, and one in seven children; Harry being less then talkative, sensitive, and alone. Ron filled the empty part inside him. Ron also accepted the part of Harry that even Harry couldn't. When Harry had jumped out of the Potions Cupboard and fallen on his face, Ron had simply told him how much of a 'bloody idiot' he was, and roughly helped him up. "Why didn't you tell me?" he'd asked, scoffing. "Blimey, it's not like I'm just going to ditch you."

"You're not?"

"Six years does that to a guy. Though I may still harbour some respect for you, I'm warning you, if you start lusting after bloody Malfoy, mate, those six years go down the drain."

Harry told him it thankfully would never come to that.

And then there was Hermione Granger. She had an even bigger mouth than Ron. But she was all logic, rarely letting go of her emotions. She was a know-it-all, to rival his other friend, Draco. She'd realized first, after he had refused to dance at his fourth year Christmas Ball. Even when the Patils requested a dance. She'd accepted it with rationality and affection, as a true friend. Harry hadn't felt all that alone afterwards.

Lastly, there was Draco Malfoy. He was a bit of jerk, and a bit of a player. But he had a heart, Harry was sure of it. Somewhere. The arrogant pureblood had firstly reacted like Harry _had _to be in love with him; amused. Finally he accepted that Harry did have standards, but only after he'd yelled that at him. They had a rocky friendship, and had both started off friendless and confused. Of course, Harry knew that his three friends were all as different as they could be, but they all had their moments. They all had their own effective ways of cheering him up, especially when Halloween came around. He'd trust them with his life.

So maybe Harry wasn't completely alone. Having left the first family he could remember, the Dursleys, he'd felt like he'd stepped out of a prison and onto the bustling streets, where anything could happen. Nobody hurt him anymore. He could play invisible. He was safe. He was safe. He was _safe_.

Godric's Hallow would symbolize this, he knew.

It was his seventeenth birthday, and the Dursleys had celebrated by ignoring the day all together. Which he was used to, of course. Draconis, the owl, had delivered Draco's posh gift of dress-robes, with a note saying that they would keep him from looking like old Lupin. Pigwideon, Ron's owl, had given him a home-knitted red jumper, and some pumpkin pies. Fred and George had sent some gifts for Dudley, which Harry had greatly appreciated. A delivery owl had slammed into the window, then handed over a packet of golden snitches and a book on tricky Quidditch manoeuvres.

The best gift of all came at 12:00 am. Sirius.

He'd spelled the door open, showed the Dursleys the mess of paper describing the end of their guardianship to him, summoned Harry's stuff, and whizzed him away. The best moment of Harry's lie lasted under ten minutes.

They'd flown to the house; Sirius riding his motorcycle, and Harry the Nimbus 2002 he'd just had thrown at him by his mad Godfather. It was pretty beautiful. They spoke sparsely, and on optimistic topics. Things like school, and the future. Stuff that they could fix together.

Now, standing before the great, looming house, Harry felt something he shouldn't.

Harry felt afraid.

******_/HP\_**

"This is the place," Sirius said gruffly. He pointed up to one of the windows on the second floor. "That was your room."

Harry calculated the odds of having a cheerful view of the graveyard from the bedroom. He gathered that it would be his wake-up in the morning, from now on.

"Is it…"

"No. They cleaned the place up. Some crib-thief sold your bed in Knockturn. There wasn't much left for Kreacher to clean up."

Harry sagged in relief. The house seeming alien, he could manage. If he could recognize things, though, he wouldn't feel all that safe. And then he'd be back to the start.

"Your mum and dad are there," Sirius said unenthusiastically, waving his hand in the general direction of the cemetery. "Wanna say 'hi'?"

Harry sent him a withering look.

"Sorry," Sirius apologized, features softening. "Maybe later."

They stood at the gates, hovering uncertainly.

"Sixteen years is a long time," Sirius muttered under his breath. He put on a smile for Harry, and Harry returned the gift. "Makes me feel old."

"You are old."

"_Harry!_" He spluttered. "I- I- I mean- _how dare you?_"

Then, both of them laughed, and when they met each-others' eyes, they knew it was real.

Yes, it was moments like this that kept Harry alive.

******_/HP\_**

The house was eerily quiet inside. A grandfather clock in the sitting room echoed; tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.

It stopping ticking. The tocks became louder, and quicker. Harry turned to Sirius, unnerved. The older man seemed equally confused.

"It didn't do that before," he said quizzically.

Harry's heart ached that his Godfather remembered even the smallest things about the house. He couldn't imagine, sitting in a cold, damp cell, the misty memory of a clock one's only comfort.

"It's a magic house?" Harry asked, rather than stated.

The clock slowed. Tick. Tock. Ttick. Tock. Tock. Tick.

"Best ignore it," Sirius shrugged. "We can have it fixed later."

Fixed, Harry noted. Not replaced. He understood the feeling; the undisturbed house was creepy, but to replace something would feel like replacing Lily and James Potter. What was left of them, anyway.

The hall was dark. Burgundy walls matched Harry's jumper; which he felt like ripping off. Being like the house, the Gryffindor colours house, somehow perturbed him.

_Not like him_.

A moment after such a thought traced his mind, he found himself on the ground. Sirius stood tall above him.

"Merlin Harry. Five minutes in the house and you've already tripped over a rug." Sirius considered this. "Your mother's favourite, actually."

Harry scrambled to his feet and stared at the rug. It had a dark red frame, and a light brown-yellow colouring. A face stared up at him; resembling Mona-Lisa in its grace and lack of emotion. Suddenly, the rug stretched beneath his feet; like the face had smiled.

Harry frowned, and rubbed at his eyes. Sirius noticed.

"Long day, eh? How many days since you've eaten?"

"Two."

"Last thing you ate?"

"Bread."

"And before that?" Sirius scowled.

"Bread."

"And- oh, never mind. You relax, Harry. I'll make us pasta or something. I'm sure your mum left some of her dandy cook books around here somewhere…"

As Sirius wandered off, aimlessly, somewhere towards the kitchen, Harry was free to investigate his old/new home.

The first room he came across was a sitting room. Gothic windows graced it, and the walls were the colour of red gooseberries. The awake portraits tipped their hats respectfully when he entered the room, and Harry dusted off their pictures for them with a quick **_scourgify_**. "Thank you," whispered Dorea Hestia Potter-Black. She smiled at him, greying hair turning a light pink for a minute, and Harry hesitantly let his lips quirk upwards. The near-smile dropped at her next words.

"He's been waiting for you."

Harry's breathing quickened. A green light flashed in his eyes. Recognition slammed into him, whilst disconcerted perplexity danced about his head.

"Who?"

Dorea began walking away from the frame, to another portrait in another house. "He's been waiting sixteen years," she continued, vanishing. Her last words echoed, though she was gone. "You never should have come home."

******_/HP\_**

Harry stood outside the kitchen door, against the wall. He could hear Sirius whistling cheerfully, and his flustered words died in his mouth. His Godfather seemed genuinely happy, for once. Harry had heard that Sirius, having been disowned, had lived with the Potters for the remainder of his school life. Perhaps not every memory was one worth forgetting. It hurt, somewhat, that his Godson's dead father could suffice, but his living Godson couldn't.

He turned away, and headed up the stairs. His hand wiped 'way more dust on the bannister.

On the second landing, he paused. Instantly, his feet decided for him where to go next. They naturally headed towards the small bedroom overlooking the graveyard.

He closed his eyes upon seeing it. Clearly, it was the only place Sirius had bothered to have properly cleaned up. A mahogany bed sat between two tall windows, a red wooden mirror staring at him from across the room. The floor was a red-brown, and the walls were coloured like antique-brass. Some candles were lit on the small dresser, which, upon looking, fit more clothing than possible. All new. Sirius had outdone himself with multiple posters of various Quidditch teams around the room, and seeker Lennox Campbell was yelling at Alasdair Maddock. Harry sent a silencing spell his way, though amused. He tried to ignore the smirking figure in the stands, who was staring through the poster. He looked away, equally uncomfortable and befuddled, once the figure disappeared.

He collapsed onto the bed, folding his arms behind his head, tiredly. He fell into a dozy state of mind, merely thinking and wondering about things he'd soon forget and those he never would. Sirius's voice soon snapped him out of his reverie, and he blinked his droopy lids open. He staggered towards the door, stifling a lazy yawn in his hand.

He straightened up, moving towards the mirror. He knew his hair had probably reached a new level of messy and that he should flatten the mane down, but he froze half-way there.

There was a face in the mirror, leering at him.

And it wasn't his own.


End file.
